Makings of a Master
by Sidekicks-anonymous
Summary: Before Mekaneck was a Master of the Universe, he was simply a young soldier in Captain Randor's army. Prequel to the 2002 series.
1. Second Chance

_Pain._

 _Of all his senses, that seemed to be the only one left. Pain, throbbing steadily under the fog that smothered his thoughts. He strained to recall what had caused it—something about a fire. No, not a fire-an explosion. He'd felt it as much as seen it, the force that had scattered him and his comrades. They'd only had a second's warning before the missile hit. He'd thought the flames were the biggest danger. He hadn't realized the_ force _an explosion had, tossing grown men into the air like rag dolls and sending debris and shrapnel everywhere…_

 _Remembering was difficult. The fog blurred his thoughts, whirled them out of his reach even as he grasped at them. It would be so much easier to stop struggling—to let all thought go and allow the fog to envelop him. Something in the back of his mind told him this was a bad idea. He agreed with that; he didn't want to let go. But it was so hard to stay alert… and every second, the fog became thicker…_

 _"_ _Medic! Over here!"_

 _Was that a voice? Or just his imagination? He really wasn't sure anymore. A harsh sound penetrated the fog, the crunch of heavy boots trudging through gravel._

 _"_ _Is he alive?"_

 _"_ _Move over, let me scan 'im."_

 _Not one, but two voices. Too loud and clear to be his imagination. Allies, then? It sounded like it—the first voice was gruff, but a note of concern ran through it. Not something you'd expect from an enemy._

 _One of the voices—the softer one, he thought—let out a hiss of empathy. "The sooner this war ends, the better. Look at this kid, he can't be more than eighteen. He shouldn't be on a battlefield."_

 _"_ _Nobody should be on a battlefield." The first voice muttered. "Is he still alive or not?"_

 _"_ _He is—for now. But his neck's fractured; even if he survives, it's never gonna heal right."_

 _There was a long pause._

 _"_ _Can we transport him without causing further damage?"_

 _"_ _Maybe—I'll be honest, though, chief, I think his fighting days are over."_

 _"_ _Maybe. But he deserves a chance."_

 _A jumble of shouted orders echoed through his mind. The gravel around him shifted as someone knelt down._

 _"_ _All right, get him onto the stretcher—carefully!"_

 _Pain stabbed through his mental haze like a red-hot poker. He let out an involuntary grunt, the only response he could make to the torment. Even as the pain seared his thoughts, however, he felt a pressure on his hand—and a gruff voice speaking softly._

 _"_ _Hang in there, kid."_

* * *

He awoke to bright light. He blinked dazedly, wondering if he'd died and this was what heaven looked like. That theory was soon vetoed as he caught the scent of antiseptic. The medical ward, then—so he'd survived.

He turned his head to look around and winced at the movement. His whole neck ached. Not just his neck, but his chest and lungs, too. He reached up to feel his throat—and froze. A layer of bandages was there, but underneath them, where there should have been flesh, his fingers felt the smooth hardness of metal. The metal seemed to go all the way around his neck and partway down his chest and back. What had happened to him?

His cot creaked as he gingerly sat up. He was definitely in the medical ward. The cot he was lying on was surrounded by curtains, though he could see people walking back and forth through the gaps.

"Hello?" He rasped. Speaking felt odd—like he was taking through a metal pipe. Which, considering the state of his neck, might be exactly what was happening. The curtains parted and a medic stepped in, followed by a man in armor. The patient straightened up instinctively, heart pounding. That was General Duncan, Captain Randor's second-in-command. What was he doing here?

"Feeling all right?" the general asked, his tone friendly. The boy nodded, ignoring the ache in his neck.

"His vitals are stable," the medic said, running a quick scan over his body. "The cybernetics seem to be integrating successfully."

"Cybernetics?" The patient eyed the general. Though Duncan's expression didn't change, his eyes held a remorseful look.

"I'm afraid you were injured badly in the last battle," the general explained. "Your neck and spine were damaged. I was able to repair them with cybernetic upgrades, but the surgery was fairly extensive. It'll take some getting used to."

The patient rubbed his neck again, marveling at the feel of the metal. He had a mechanical neck now? That didn't even bother him as much as the question on his mind now. "Thank you, sir, but…why go to trouble? Cybernetics are expensive; I'm only a foot soldier."

"I don't believe anyone is 'only' anything." The general admonished gently. "Your life is a valuable as the life of the highest-ranking officer." Duncan met his gaze. "What's your name, son?"

"Private Michael Aldisson, sir. Regiment Theta."

"And how old are you?"

"Eighteen, sir." Michael hesitated only briefly before saying it. He'd told that lie so often since enlisting that he was beginning to believe it. Duncan eyed him calculatingly—for a moment, Michael thought the general would call him out on the falsehood. But he merely nodded.

"Eighteen is young. You have a lot of years left in your life, private. You may be a foot soldier now, but who knows what the future holds?" The general fixed him with a piercing gaze, like he was looking into Michael's very soul. "I've given you another chance at life—now go out and do something great with it."

* * *

 **Mekaneck doesn't get enough love from the fans. Here's my contribution to fixing that.**  
 **Please review! Tell me if I can improve it!**


	2. Partners in Crime

How had he gotten himself into this? It was supposed to be a peaceful night off, a night to relax from the stresses of war. Instead, he was outside the commander's tent nursing a split lip, while armed guards watched to keep him from running off before the commander judged his case. Not how he'd wanted to spend the evening.

 _The best laid plans…_ Michael let out a sigh. The fact that someone else was sharing his fate gave no comfort at all. He snuck a glance at the soldier standing next to him—his partner-in-crime. The man was several years older and clearly accustomed to combat. His blacked eye didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He did look troubled, though—presumably about whatever punishment awaited them both.

As if he could feel Michael's gaze, the man looked up suddenly and met his eye. With a wary glance at their guards, he leaned closer.

"This was my fault," he whispered. "Follow my lead and I'll see if I can get you off."

Michael blinked in surprise—he hadn't been expecting that. He opened his mouth to respond, but a glare from one of the guards silenced him. The tent in front of them rustled and Michael snapped to attention just as the commander stepped out. The stocky man was shorter than either of his subordinates, but the ferocity of his gaze made up for it. Michael shrank before his glare as the commander surveyed the two delinquents with disgust.

"So you're the ones who've decided to throw off my schedule tonight," The officer growled, thumbing the hilt of his sword irritably. "Both of you, state your name and regiment!"

"Private Michael Aldisson, Regiment Thȇta, sir!"

"Corporal Man-E Faces, Regiment Delta, sir!" The older soldier rattled off. The commander raised his eyebrows at that—generally, regiment-mates got into trouble together. That was a trivial point, though.

"Let's see if I've got the facts straight: you two started a bar fight?"

"Yes, sir!" Michael and the corporal said in unison.

"And not just any bar fight, but a fight with _civilians_?" The commander shook his head as he received another affirmative answer. "Eternia's finest, representatives of the Elders' army, and you were brawling like common vagabonds? Despicable." He spat.

The superior officer began pacing, avoiding their gaze with a stony expression. "All right, tell me your version of what happened. And make it quick; I want to get this over with."

Michael's companion spoke up first. "I accept full responsibility for this incident, sir. I reacted poorly—"

"I don't want to be told whose fault it is—I want to know what happened!"

The Corporal pursed his lips, clearly annoyed with the interruption. "Very well. I had the night off and went to the local brewery. One of the other patrons and I had a… disagreement, and I'm afraid my temper got the better of me."

"So you threw the first punch?"

"First, second, and third. Some of his friends decided to join in," the man added at his superior's questioning look.

The commander gave a grunt of acknowledgement. "And how were you involved with this?" He asked, gesturing at Michael.

The older soldier interjected before he could respond. "He jumped in when he saw I was outnumbered. All he tried to do was break up the fight, sir."

The commander glanced at Michael. "That true, Private?"

"Well…"

"As I said, the blame for the incident lies on me." The corporal interrupted again. He squared his shoulders and faced down his superior officer. "I acknowledge my fault and accept whatever punishment you see fit, Commander."

Michael fidgeted as the commander's gaze shifted from him to his companion.

"Very well," their superior said after a moment's consideration. "Corporal, this army is built on discipline. I will not tolerate a troublemaker in the ranks. Understand?"

"Understood, sir."

The commander leaned forward until his face was inch from the corporal's. "You have KP duty for the next month. If I hear of such reprehensible behavior again, it'll be the brig for you." His squint-eyed glare dared his subordinate to object. When the corporal did not, he backed away, satisfied that he'd made his point. He turned to Michael. "Private, since your involvement was attempting to keep the peace, I'll refrain from a punishment. In the future, alert one of your superiors instead of getting involved yourself. You're both dismissed!"

The corporal saluted and turned to leave, but Michael remained rooted to the spot. His conscience was screaming at him. He had to say it now or he'd regret it forever.

"Sir? With all due respect… I think I should receive the same punishment as the corporal."

The older soldier stopped in his tracks. The commander raised an eyebrow.

"Now that's a new one. What are you saying, Private?"

"It only seems fair, sir," Michael explained, feeling his companion's bewildered stare. "The corporal did throw the first punch, but if he hadn't, I would have slugged the guy myself."

The commander stared at him a moment. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a weary sigh. "Private, is this man a friend of yours?"

"No, sir. I've never met him before tonight."

"Then why in Eternia would you get involved in his problem?! What's it to you if he's arguing with a civilian?"

"Because the argument was about Captain Randor."

That caught the commander's attention. He listened intently as Michael continued.

"The civilian was saying some…unpleasant things about the captain." Michael scowled as he recalled the drunken insults. "They were completely untrue, and completely uncalled for. I wasn't going to let him insult our leader like that. But someone else got to him first." He nodded toward the corporal, who stood stiffly behind him. The commander eyed him coldly.

"Is this true, Corporal?"

"Yes, sir." The older soldier gritted his teeth, as if he too could still hear the slanders. "And civilian or not, that slimeball was asking for a beating."

The commander looked from one soldier to the other, seeing their identical stubborn looks. He sighed and began pacing again.

"Be that as it may," the commander said, "rules are rules. Very well, Private, wish granted—a month of KP duty for the both of you." He stopped and looked them in the eye, gaze less harsh than before. "Your loyalty is commendable, but in the future, remember that your own actions reflect on the captain as well. Randor would rather suffer personal insults than have his soldiers acting out of line. Understood?"

"Understood, sir!" They chorused.

"Good. Dismissed!"

This time, both Michael and the corporal walked away in silence. Michael considered what he'd just done; a month of scrubbing pots and peeling potatoes in the mess tent was not a fun prospect. _But,_ he thought, remembering the satisfaction of his fist meeting the critic's ribs, _it was worth it_.

"You didn't need to do that."

"Yes, I did," Michael responded automatically, not even looking up. "It wasn't fair for you to take the blame."

"It wasn't fair for you to be punished when you didn't start the fight."

"I would have, though." Stopping, Michael gave the older soldier a serious look. "I meant what I said—I would have punched the jerk's lights out myself if you hadn't gotten there first."

He stood there for a moment, matching the corporal's gaze as they silently summed each other up. Slowly, the corporal cracked a smile.

"Well, in that case, thanks for backing me up. I needed it."

Michael scoffed. "No, you didn't. You had two of the guys on the ground and one in a headlock before I even lifted a finger. How did you do that, anyway?"

The corporal chuckled. His helmet whirled around suddenly, and when it clicked back into place, the green face of a monster stared down at Michael.

"I'm stronger than I look," the monster said, his voice now rough and gravelly. "At least some of the time." The helmet whirred around again and the human face returned. The Corporal continued in his normal voice. "In any case, it looks like we'll be sharing company for the next month."

Michael nodded. "Hope you like washing dishes, Corporal—what was your name again?"

"Man E. Faces, at your service." The corporal held out a hand. "And yours-?"

"Michael." He shook the proffered hand, a genuine grin crossing his features. "But my friends call me Mekaneck."

* * *

 **Just a warning-I probably won't update this story often. It's been sitting in my documents for over a years waiting for me to work on it. But if people like it, I'll try to keep it going.**  
 **Please review!**


End file.
